The Devil's Company

CHAPTER TWENTY

WILL SPARE THE READER AND MYSELF FROM THE SCENES OF SADNESS I was forced to endure. I will say only that by the time I reached the house, much of the neighborhood was already in attendance, and the ladies of her acquaintance labored to give my aunt what little comfort can be had in such times. My uncle had been ailing, yes, and his days had plainly been limited, but I now understood that my aunt had never believed the end to be imminent. Eventual, certainly, and more quickly than she would have considered just, but not this year, or the next, or, perhaps, the one after. And now her great friend and protector and companion, the father of their lost son, was now himself lost. Though I have many times been despondent in my solitude, I cannot say that I have ever been so alone as she was without her husband.

The men of the burial society had already sequestered my uncle’s body to prepare it by washing and then placing the lifeless form in a burial shroud. One of these men, I knew, would by custom be asked to stand guard to the body, that it might not be left alone at any time. It has ever been our custom that the body be buried quickly, within a day if possible, and after making inquiries I learned that arrangements had already been made by several of my uncle’s associates, including Mr. Franco. A representative of the Ma’amad, the ruling council of the synagogue, informed us that the funeral would be scheduled for eleven the following morning.

I sent a note to Mr. Ellershaw, informing him that I would be absent from Craven House the next day and explaining the reason. Mindful of Edgar’s warning, I sent a note to Mr. Cobb, informing him as well. I would be indisposed for the next day or two, I told him, and given that I believed his actions had accelerated my uncle’s decline, I advised that he would be wise not to trouble me.

The long night somehow passed. Mourners faded away, and I remained in the house, along with several of my aunt’s closest friends. I begged Mr. Franco to stay but he declined, saying he was too new to the family’s friendship and had no wish to impose himself.

As has ever been the custom, friends brought food the next morning, though my aunt ate little, partaking only of some thinned wine and a piece of bread. Her friends aided her in dressing, and together we walked to the magisterial Bevis Marks synagogue, that great monument to the efforts of Portuguese Jews to establish a true home in London.

Though she was in the horizonless darkness of grief, I must believe that it was some consolation for my aunt to see how full that building was with mourners. My uncle had made no small number of friends among our community, but here too were members of the Tudesco race and even English merchants. If there is one feature of Christian worship I admire, it is that women and men are suffered to sit together, and never have I more lamented our synagogue’s separation of the sexes than that day, wishing to remain with my aunt and give her comfort. Perhaps the need for comfort was my own, however, for I knew she sat with her friends, women who offered her what friendship she desired and who, I must admit, knew her far better than I. To me she had always been a quiet and congenial lady—when I was a child, quick with a sweet or pastry; as an adult, equally quick with a kind word. Her friends would know her inner heart; they would know what to say while I remained too torpid of mind to find the right words.

I, too, had the comfort of friends. Since my return to the neighborhood of Duke’s Place I had been warmly embraced, and I sat with many well-wishers. Also by my side was Elias. I had neglected to inform him of the event—out of pride, I suppose, not wishing for him to see me in my sorrow—but my uncle was well known about town, and he received word in very little time. I must say he surprised me by knowing enough of our traditions to refrain from bringing flowers, as he would to a Christian service, and spoke instead to the beadle of the synagogue about a gift to an appropriate charitable cause in my uncle’s name.

The day was cold and crisp, full of dark clouds but surprisingly free of wind, rain, or snow, and so when we retired to the nearby grave site, the weather seemed to me fitting—hard and cruel without being punishing. It accented our sorrow without distracting us from it.

After the conclusion of prayers, we took turns tossing a shovelful of earth upon the plain wooden casket. Indeed, here was one area in which I believed absolutely that Jews have the right of it over Christians. I do not understand why members of their churches insist on dressing their dead in finery and burying them in ornate coffins, as though they subscribed to the superstitions of the Egyptian kings of old. The body, it seems to me, is a thing without life. The commemoration should be of the ineffable thing that has passed, not the material thing that remains, and such showy ostentation is a product of earthly vanity, not the hope of heavenly reward.

The service concluded, we made our way slowly back to my aunt’s house, where we would begin the traditional ten-day period of mourning. It is the custom of my nation that in this time the mourner is not be left alone but rather visited throughout the day and given gifts of food and other provisions so that the necessities of life need not trouble her. Here I felt great consternation, for I believed it my responsibility to tend to my aunt’s needs, yet I could not stay away from Craven House and Cobb for ten days. There would be too much to do during those days of mourning, and if I was to aid Ellershaw, as was indeed my task, I could not retire from my duties now without endangering Elias and Mr. Franco. Cobb might grant me a day or two, but more than that, I knew, would push the limits of his humanity.

As I walked among the swirling crowd of friends and mourners, I felt a hand upon my arm and turned to see Celia Glade walking beside me. I confess I felt my heart leap, and for a wondrous fleeting moment I forgot the depths of my sorrow and felt joy, unambiguous joy, at her presence. And though the recollection of grief soon returned to fill my heart, there was another moment, a more deliberate moment, in which I allowed myself not to dwell on the disturbing truths of this lady—that I knew not who or what she truly was, if she was a Jewess as she claimed, if she was in the service of the French Crown, and what she wished of me. In that moment I allowed myself to think of those questions as mere trivialities. I allowed myself to believe she cared for me.

I stepped aside, under an awning, and she came with me, her hand no longer upon my arm. Several of the funeral procession studied us with interest, so I entered an alley that led to an open courtyard, a place I knew to be clean and safe and where she followed me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her.

She had come dressed in black, and these colors showed off the dark of her hair and eyes and the light of her skin to advantage. A slight wind had picked up since the burial, and it blew strands of hair about her dark bonnet. “I heard the news of your uncle. There are no secrets among Jews, you know. I came only to tell you of my sorrow for you. I know you and your uncle were very much attached, and I feel for your loss.”

“It is interesting that you know of my feelings for him, as we have never spoken of it.” My voice was low, steady. I could not say why I took this tack with her except that I so wanted her to be someone I might trust that I could not stanch the urge to thrust all doubt forward.

She bit her lip, caught herself, and closed her eyes briefly. “You must know, Mr. Weaver, that you are something of a public figure, among the Jews and among the English too. Your friends and relations have all been noted by the men of Grub Street. I cannot stop you from assigning sinister meaning to my visit, but I wish that you would not.”

“And why do you wish it?” I asked, somewhat softer.

She reached out once more and put her hand on my upper arm—but only for a moment. She thought better of it, of the circumstances, of where we were. “I wish it because”—she shook her head gently—“because it is what I wish. I can think of no better way to express it.”

“Miss Glade,” I said. “Celia. I know not what you are. I know not what you want of me.”

“Stop,” she said, her voice soft as a mother quieting an infant. She raised two fingers and gently brushed my lips. “I am your friend. You know as much as that. The rest is but details, and they will out in time. Not now, but in time. For this moment, you know what matters—you know the truth in your heart.”

“I want to—” I began, but again she would not have it.

“No,” she said. “We will speak of it later. Your uncle has died, and you must mourn. I did not come here to push you to anything or ask you questions or make you explain your sentiments. I came only out of respect for a man I never knew but of whom I have heard great things. And I came to offer you what I can and to tell you that you are in my heart. That is all I can do. I can only hope it is enough, and not too much, and I will leave you to your family and Portuguese friends. If you find you wish to say more—well, you may seek me in the kitchen.”

Her lips turned into a sardonic smile. She leaned forward and kissed me, soft and fleeting, upon my lips, and then turned to make her way from the alley, and I turned to watch her go.

While we had been in this conversation, the sun had emerged from a small gap in the clouds to shine down upon the very spot where the alley opened to the courtyard. As we turned we both saw a figure there, silhouetted against the sunlight—a woman, tall and finely shaped, garbed in black, her gown rippling in the growing breeze, her hair fluttering against her bonnet.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I saw you enter the alley but did not know you were not alone.”

I could not see the face, but I knew the voice at once. It was my cousin’s widow, my uncle’s erstwhile daughter-in-law, the woman I had sought to marry. It was Miriam.

HERE WAS A WOMAN who had chosen not one other man over me but two. She had rejected my proposals of marriage more times than I could count without making an effort. And yet for a moment I believed I must say something to explain what I was doing with Celia Glade, apologize, offer a false and convincing story. Then I recollected myself. I owed her no explanation.

I owed her something, however, for she had vowed never to speak to me again and yet here she was. Miriam had believed herself unequal to the task of being a thieftaker’s wife and had instead chosen to marry a Parliamentarian named Griffin Melbury and convert to the Church of England. Sadly, Melbury had been not a little involved in the scandalous affairs of the late Westminster election, and though I at first had been grudgingly inclined to accept his worthiness, his true and scurrilous nature ultimately became undeniable—to me if not to his wife. Miriam held me accountable for that man’s ruin and death, and though I had made it a policy not to accept or deny responsibility, she knew well that I did not love him and could feel no sorrow over what had befallen him.

Miss Glade, I soon realized, was ever the most useful person to have around at such awkward moments, for she did not seem to feel or fall prey to their difficulties. She stepped forward and took Miriam’s hand. “Mrs. Melbury,” she said. “I have heard so much about you. I am Celia Glade.”

What, I longed to ask, had she heard about Miriam? Unlike my dealings with my uncle, here was something that had never made the papers. Celia might tell me to trust my heart, but how could I when I could not trust its object? She knew too much of me.

Miriam took the hand briefly and half curtsied. “A pleasure,” she said. She turned to me. “I cannot attend the house. I wished only to say that I am sorry for your loss. For our loss. I did not always agree with your uncle on all things, but I knew his worth and I shall miss him. The world will miss him.”

“You are kind in your sentiments,” I told her.

“’Tis nothing but the truth.”

“And now I expect you will go back to not speaking to me,” I said, attempting some levity in my manner of speech.

“Benjamin, I—” But whatever she had to say, she now thought better of it. Instead she swallowed hard, as if forcing down her words. “That is precisely what I shall do,” she told me, and so turned away.

I remained there, watching her go, watching the space where she had stood, trying, as Celia insisted, to listen to my heart. Did I still love her? Had I ever loved her? In such moments, one begins to wonder about the nature of love, if it is real or an illusion of indulgence, of fancy and self-importance, of assigning a condition or state of being to ghostly and intangible impulses. Such musings can lead to no conclusions but only more confusion.

Celia shook her head, as though contemplating something of the greatest import, measuring the nuance in her mind, taking stock of all before making free to speak. Then she turned to me. “I believe the winter has been hard on her skin. Did you not think so?” Wisely, she departed rather than await an answer.

AT THE HOUSE, the wine poured freely, and the mourners drank freely, as has always been the custom for funerals in our community. I shook more hands than I could count; I accepted more condolences than I can remember. I heard countless stories of my uncle’s kindness, his charity, his cleverness, his resourcefulness, his good humor.

At last Mr. Franco took me aside to a corner where Elias awaited. “Tomorrow you must set aside your grief and return to Craven House.”

“Listen to him,” Elias said. “We discussed this together. Neither of us wishes to appear to act out of self-interest. I, for one, would applaud your defying Cobb and telling him to go to the devil. I’ve been arrested for debt before and one more time shan’t hurt me, but I believe this conflict has escalated. Great and unforgivable harm has now been done, and telling Cobb to go to the devil may bring you satisfaction but it cannot bring you revenge.”

“You can strike back,” Franco said, “only by discovering what he wants, by following the trail he sets out for you, by making him believe his designs are within reach of completion and then taking everything away. Like Mr. Gordon, I should go to prison with a heart full of gladness if I believed it would accomplish some good, but it can only mean the delay of Cobb’s goals, not his destruction.”

I nodded. I wished to defy Cobb, to beat him, to put a blade in his back, but my friends had seen through the murk of my anger and gone to the heart of the matter. I had to destroy him for this, and I could do it only by learning what he wanted.

“I shall make myself available to your aunt,” Franco said. “I live in retirement, and I have no other duties. I will make certain she wants for nothing, Mr. Weaver. And she has a dozen friends and more, people who know nothing of these events, who are willing to do the same out of love. You may wish to be here, but you do not need to be here.”

“I know you are right,” I said, “and I would do what you say, but I fear the sadness it will engender. How must my aunt feel when I abandon her in this dark hour?”

The two men exchanged looks. Then it was Mr. Franco who spoke. “You must know that in this we follow the lady’s instructions. She approached me and bade me tell you as much. Seek revenge, therefore, not for your sake or ours but because the grieving widow asks you to do it.”

IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT when I made to leave the house. Some of my aunt’s friends had agreed to spend the night, even though she told them she did not require it. It was time, she said, to learn to live alone. She must spend the rest of her life in such a state.

Other than these friends, I was the last to remain, and so at last I arose to kiss and hug the lady and take my leave. She walked me to the door, and though her face was drawn and her eyes red from tears, I saw in her a determination I had never before observed.

“For now,” she said, “Joseph will order the operations of the warehouse. For now.”

I feared I understood her meaning only too well. “My dear aunt, I am unequal to the task—”

She shook her head and attempted a sad imitation of a smile. “No, Benjamin. I am not your uncle, to ask you to do what is not in your nature. Out of love he wanted to make you something you are not. Out of love, I will not ask it. Joseph will manage while I mourn. Then I will handle the business myself.”

“You?” I spoke louder, faster than I had intended, but I could not contain my shock.

Again, another pale smile. “You are so like him. When he discussed what would happen after he was gone, he spoke of you, he spoke of Joseph, he spoke of José. Never once did he speak of me. I come from Amsterdam, Benjamin, where there are many women of business.”

“Dutch women,” I observed. “There are no Jewesses of business.”

“No,” she agreed, “but this is a new land, a different time. To Miguel, to the world, to you, Benjamin, I have been all but invisible because I am a woman. But now he is gone, and there is no one to obscure your view of me. Perhaps you will discover me to be something other than what you have supposed all your life.”

I returned her smile. “Perhaps I will.”

“Mr. Franco and Mr. Gordon spoke to you?”

“They did.”

“Good.” She nodded heavily, thoughtfully, as though completing an idea in the privacy of her mind. “You can do what you must? You can go back to this man, this Cobb, and do as he asks long enough to learn of his designs?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I can contain my anger.”

“You must,” she said softly. “To hurt him is not enough, you must do more. You must take your anger and separate it from yourself. You must place it in a closet and shut the door.”

“And when the time is right, open it,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But only when the time is right.” Then, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’ve been a good nephew today—to me and to Miguel. Tomorrow you must be a good man. This Jerome Cobb destroyed your uncle. I want you to destroy him in return.”